


A Funeral, and What Comes After

by JCBookworm



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ghosts, I'll add more characters as we go, it's a bbc ghosts au, there's not much more to it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29543913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCBookworm/pseuds/JCBookworm
Summary: When Morgause Orkney dies, her sons are reunited, only to find that they have been - jointly - left a manor house in the countryside. Unfortunately, they are not the only residents.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 9





	1. A Funeral, and What Comes After

**Author's Note:**

> I might change the summary, but honestly this is a BBC Ghosts au and there's not much more to it. Yes, I do hate that this is the first Arthurian lit fanfiction I've managed to get out. You can blame Rey, who put the idea out there and it hasn't left my mind since.
> 
> (Also, in this one the age goes Gawain - Agravaine - Gaheris - Mordred - Gareth because it works better for this.)
> 
> tw for the first chapter: the aftermath of a funeral, and grieving. neither are hugely described but i figured i should put it in case

It was done.

Gareth stood at the edge of his mother’s grave, the soil wet from rain, droplets falling off the stone evenly.

It was painfully silent.

Everyone from the funeral had retired into the house for the after-service, patting him on the back as they went. The service itself had been a blur: Morgause had been, if not popular, then at least well-known, and it had shown by the amount of guests with pasted on sympathy and superficial well wishes.

A hand, soft and cold even through his jacket, touched his shoulder.

“Come along, dear,” his Aunt Elaine murmured, steering him away. “You have people waiting.”

Gareth was not particularly in the mood to talk to anyone, but he let Elaine guide him into the car anyway. Anything would be better than staring blankly at the grave, wondering—

Well. Wondering everything, really. What went wrong and where, and how he could have been _better_. Suddenly, everything he had held against his mother all seemed to vanish with her coffin.

The car was cold.

Elaine sat in the back with him, holding his hand carefully. On his other side, Gaheris hadn’t said a word to him since he’d gotten in the car, simply nodded at their aunt when she’d opened the door. He might as well not be there at all.

The journey back to the house was almost inconsequential, spent with him staring forward blankly, Elaine softly muttering condolences, Gaheris listening to his headphones. He isn’t particularly sure who’s driving. He doesn’t particularly care.

Gawain is the first to greet him when they arrive at the house, Aunt Elaine taking his coat and murmuring something comforting. His face is groomed into the exact level of sombreness he is here to portray. He pulls Gareth into a hug and whispers, “Not long now,” in his ear, because Gawain is, as always, thinking only of when he can get back to doing whatever he wants and doesn’t care enough to consider something as intangible as whether others are grieving.

Gareth isn’t sure why he came.

He isn’t sure why _any_ of them came, frankly, because all four of his brothers had expressed on several different occasions their distaste of Morgause. If anything, he is inclined to think that it was the prospect of food and entertainment that brought at least two of them here, rather than any sort of actual sorrow.

But it’s their mother’s funeral, and given how much she had wanted her sons all back under one roof together, he resolves to swallow his bitterness.

And he steps back to consider his brothers.

Mordred is wearing a leather jacket over his suit and hasn’t bothered to fully clean off his combat boots. Agravaine, next to him, has long discarded his tie, which trails from the pocket of the overcoat he hasn’t bothered to hang up. Gaheris has only taken out one earbud and either thinks that no one can see the other one or simply doesn’t care. Gawain, of course, looks as ruggedly handsome as always, eyeliner smudged just so, but with a remarkable air of disinterest in the whole thing, occasionally smirking at someone else’s conversation.

A rather poor showing.

“Thank you for coming,” Gareth says eventually, because someone has to. Gaheris sniggers at him, but Gawain nods amiably, regardless of the smirk on his lips.

“Sorry for your loss,” he replies solemnly with too much mocking in his voice as though he gives no thought to the fact that she was _his_ mother as well—

Mordred gives him a strained smile, and he tries to settle down somewhat. Mordred was the closest of his brothers in age to him and had only left a couple of years before, packing for Uni and never coming back. Mother had been furious when he’d emailed her, as though she hadn’t even considered that he might follow in the exact steps as their older brothers. She’d always been rather protective of Mordred.

It was the main reason that he’d deferred his own acceptance for a year, trying to alleviate Morgause’s overbearing behaviour at the thought of her youngest son leaving her.

A lot of good that did, now.

Agravaine steps closer and pats his shoulder somewhat awkwardly. “This is… a lovely party,” he tries, then winces.

“Right,” he says, because what else can he say to them?

\-------

They all stay in the house that night, with the exception of Gawain, who has left with the daughter of one of the guests. Every brother has retired to their rooms, instinctively moving around each other like the ghosts they always were in this house. The hired cleaning crew are the only ones who enter the living room after the guests have all left, and the door closing behind them feels like the closing of a coffin.

Gareth does not know if he has ever been able to breathe.

\-------

Gawain had returned by the morning, sipping from the mug of a cup he appears to have stolen from a café. Any question as to why he had done this rather than simply ordering the drink to go is answered very simply by the fact that it is Gawain.

He’s in the kitchen when Gareth enters, sat at the island with his feet up on the other seat. He waves a hand lazily but seems much more invested in both his laptop and his phone.

“Good morning,” Gareth ventures.

“Morning,” Gawain answers, only briefly looking up. “You’re awake early.”

This is the time Gareth always gets up: in fact, it is slightly later, because he had lain in bed awake and staring blankly at the ceiling for some time. Rather than saying that though, he shrugs and says, “It’s an important day.”

“It is?” Comes another voice, and Gaheris meanders into the kitchen. Gawain once again raises a hand and repeats the same greeting he’d given to Gareth. In fairness, this clearly _is_ early for Gaheris, who is sorting through the mugs for one to have coffee in.

“Where’s my cup?” He asks eventually after a minute of fruitless searching. “I left it here.”

Gareth simply hums with a general sense of ignorance, despite knowing full well that Gaheris’ favourite mug is tucked away in the loft. Him and Mordred had packed it there whilst Morgause had been screaming and sobbing about her most recently estranged son in the other room and making threats to empty air that she would break everything he had left behind. She may well have, but she would have regretted it later, so removing any breakables from her vicinity had seemed smart.

Gareth sometimes wondered if all of his brothers had inherited something that instinctively made them up and leave as soon as it suited them, leaving the others to deal with the mess they had left behind. He didn’t like wondering that though, because it always made him feel bad for blaming them, and then it made him wonder if he too would leave.

It is wrong that he feels relieved for now never having to face that.

A grumpy sounding clinking noise breaks his thought process as Gaheris rather carelessly plants a mug in the machine and switches it on.

“So?” He asks. “Why’s it important?”

“Will,” Gawain mumbles absently, typing something into his laptop.

“Right,” nods Gaheris. “Will’s it so important?” He frowns. “No, that’s certainly not right—”

Gareth wonders if he could leave without being noticed, but that probably isn’t very mature. “He means it’s the will reading today,” he explains lightly to Gaheris, who definitely doesn’t see this time of day very often. “For mother’s inheritance?”

“Very mercenary of you, talking about this only the day after mother’s funeral,” Agravaine teases, ambling in to catch that. “Is that the reason you stuck around after all?”

Gawain chuckles from the island, and Gareth feels struck to the core.

He wheels round, glaring Agravaine dead in the eye. The words – furious, pouring words from a pit inside of him – threaten to spill out, until he meets Agravaine’s eyes.

They are the same colour as Gawain’s, a piercing blue ringed and shot through with a darker shade.

They are also the same colour as father’s had been.

Gareth’s retort dies in his throat and he grits his teeth.

“Where’s Mordred?” He asks instead, because if he is going to yell at his brothers for their _horrid_ , cutting remarks, it is certainly not going to be here and now. Agravaine has a strange look of satisfaction in his eyes but he shrugs, choosing instead to swipe Gaheris’ freshly made drink.

Fortunately, Gareth’s question is answered not ten minutes later when there is a rap on the window. Gaheris opens it reluctantly, still glaring at Agravaine despite the drink now being gone, and Mordred pokes his head through.

“Was that tea or coffee?” He asks, eyes fixed on the mug Agravaine is mildly swinging by the handle. “Could I have one?”

“It’s _my_ coffee,” Gaheris grouses.

Agravaine sneers at him, then tips it upside down demonstrably.

“It _was_ ,” he scoffs, trying to subtly wipe away the drops that had fallen on the counter when he had tipped it upside down.

“Right,” Mordred says with a yawn and the clear look of someone who did not care any longer about the conversation. “Sorry—just—”

This last part was because Mordred was attempting to shuffle through the window. A loud crash signals his success and he huffs with satisfaction from the floor. Presumably, this satisfaction is because the floor has been cushioned for his landing. Gaheris, who actually _is_ the floor cushioning, looks decidedly less pleased.

Gawain has apparently finished whatever he was doing on his laptop because he takes this moment to snap a picture with his phone of his two younger brothers in a pile on the floor.

“I’ve missed this,” he says fondly with a heavy lining of mockery. “All of us together. Whyever would we leave?”

Gareth has to remind himself of his earlier resolution to not punch his brothers.

Gawain doesn’t make this easy, because he’s now scanning the four of them: all dressed in various mixes of pyjamas and loungewear or somewhat bizarrely, in Mordred’s case, ripped jeans with mud spattering the hems. “Are you all wearing _those_?” He asks.

It’s alright for him of course. He has somehow come home from his overnight stay elsewhere with a fresh, perfectly fitting shirt, trousers still pressed cleanly, and looking as fresh as a bloody daisy.

Agravaine scowls and strides out, pulling his hoodie around him defensively. Gawain narrows his eyes at his back, then turns to the other three.

“Go get him,” he sighs. “I’ve lain out your clothes in my room for today.”

There is silence as they stare at Gawain, who does not appear to realise that what he has said is very odd.

“Um,” Gaheris ventures finally. “How old do you think we are?”

“Like…” Gawain frowns. “Twelve?”

It’s honestly difficult to tell if he’s kidding, but before any more questions can be asked he is waving at them all dismissively.

“It’s better to look somewhat co-ordinated for this kind of thing,” he says with strangely self-assured confidence (which seems odd given that Gareth is pretty sure that the last one of “these things” Gawain went to was their father’s, and Morgause handled pretty much everything for that, but okay).

“Right,” Mordred grumbles, evidently thinking the same thing but slouching off anyway. Gawain nods at his back proudly before turning to glare at Gaheris and Gareth until they follow.

\-------

“I understand that this must be difficult for you all,” the lawyer soothes.

“I see he isn’t wearing a coordinated outfit,” Gaheris leans forward to mutter to Gawain, who swats him without even looking. The lawyer sends them a stern look.

“Mr. Monmouth, if I may,” Gawain tries to recover, which does not seem to be working if the lawyer’s sour expression is anything to go by. “Geoffrey, right? Can I call you Geoff?”

“No.”

“ _Well_ , Geoff,” he continues, blandly ignoring the man. “I would say that we’re all devastated. We’re planning on having a family dinner later at mother’s favourite restaurant. Is there anything that could help us with that?”

Monmouth’s expression, if anything, deepens. “Any money and assets will be distributed in a week from today,” he snaps.

Gawain pouts and slings himself back in his chair. Just in front of Gaheris, Agravaine sniggers and leans over to hiss “Golddigger,” in his ear. Gawain holds up two fingers towards him, very unsubtly, and Monmouth flushes red.

“ _Mr_. Orkney,” he barks out. “If you cannot contain yourself then I will have to ask you to leave.”

“Sorry,” both Agravaine and Gawain mutter at the same time, neither of them sounding very sorry at all.

Gareth coughs lightly, wondering once again why he is acting the most mature of all of them. “I don’t suppose there is any solid information on what she has left?” He ventures. Monmouth’s expression softens slightly. “After all, we still need to get home and try and sort out her boxes and possessions.”

He hopes that he’s the only one who hears Mordred’s snort of laughter.

“It’s not a problem, young Gareth,” Monmouth assures him. “The assets of your mother are directed in her will to be split evenly between you all, with the provisions that the savings bank accounts for you and your brother—” here he nods at Mordred, who is not listening— “be kept secure until you turn twenty-one.”

He looks down and shuffles some papers. “Now, it was directed in your mother’s will that you all be gathered together when this was announced, as you are currently. However, as you are all in one place, I was hoping to see your initial thoughts on what to do with the country house.”

The five of them stare at him blankly. Even Mordred and Gaheris have tuned back in.

“The what?” Agravaine asks eventually.

Monmouth has to do a double take when he glances up from the papers to find himself faced with five very similar faces staring at him in complete bewilderment.

“The… country house?” He tries again. “Your mother left the house in the country to all five of you jointly.” His voice wavers for the first time. “You… did know about this, correct?”

“Do it look like we know?” Agravaine asks immediately. Monmount acknowledges that with a shake of his head and a muttered explanation of “documents” before rushing out of the room.

There is a moment of silence before Gawain spins to rest an arm on the back of his chair and raises an eyebrow at Gareth. “’Young Gareth?’”

“Shut up,” Gareth mutters. “Monmouth became Mother’s lawyer just after Gaheris left, he came round for dinner sometimes.”

“He didn’t like me,” Mordred sighs dramatically. The first time they had met, Mordred had put fake spiders in his tea, so Gareth figured the dislike was actually pretty understandable.

“I think the more important thing here is Mother’s secret house in the country,” points out Gaheris, who is perhaps disgruntled at not having a perceived ‘in’ with the lawyer. “What could she have possibly been doing with it?”

“Maybe it was for her job!” Mordred pipes up again, looking somewhat delighted. “As a—”

“If you say ‘as a spy’ then I am going to throw the chair at you,” Gaheris groans.

Mordred scowls over at him. “She could have been a spy,” he grumbles.

“Well, no, she couldn’t—”

“Of course she could! Spies are supposed to go under the radar!”

“You’re an idiot. You just want her to be a spy so that you can pretend something better about your good-for-nothing fath—”

“Gaheris!”

Agravaine is glaring at him, a hand resting on Mordred’s shoulder. Even Gawain looks less amused than he had been at the fight. Mordred and Gaheris stare at each other for a bit longer before they sink back down into their respective chairs.

“Sorry,” Gaheris mumbles into the tense silence. Mordred nods in acknowledgement.

“Maybe she used it as a getaway spa,” Agravaine suggests eventually. The others all give forced chuckles at the attempt to lighten the situation.

“That’s probably it, to be fair,” Gawain admits thoughtfully as the laughter dies down. “She probably had a bit of spare money so she bought a small country house to relax in.”

\-------

“Jesus Christ.”

Monmouth chuckles at Gawain’s declaration. “Yes,” he says, “it must be a bit of a shock.”

The picture on the desk, apparently of their mother’s country house, is of what is essentially a manor. There’s a wide gravel drive, a fountain planted right in front of it, surrounded by neatly trimmed trees and rolling gardens. It’s completely unfamiliar to all of them.

“Of course, there is plenty of time to decide what to do with this,” Monmouth puts in helpfully. He has apparently forgotten his distaste for most of the brothers in favour of what is possibly a fun dinner story. “We would appreciate some kind of answer within the week, but this is not strictly necessary.”

Gawain looks up from examining a photo of the old stables with an unfamiliar spark in his eyes.

“What if…” he begins, then clears his throat and starts again. “What if we kept it?”

Monmouth looks pleasantly surprised.

“It would be a venture,” he admits. “It needs some restoration, and in order to be licensed out as a venue there are certain standards that need to be met—”

“No, no. What if _we_ kept it? For ourselves. What if we all moved in there?”

“What?” All four other brothers ask at the same time. If Gareth weren’t so shocked he might be impressed. Gawain drops his photos and turns to his brothers with a wild gleam.

“I’m serious!” He spins back to Monmouth. “Well Geoff?”

Monmouth doesn’t even bother trying to correct him.

“It- it is perfectly allowed,” he manages eventually. “The forms can be sent for soon, but I encourage a great deal of thinking on this score—”

Gawain just laughs, loud and bright and uncaring.


	2. How Impulsive Decisions are Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brothers decide to make a move towards this whole business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you believe i actually have the second chapter out less than a month later. fast worker. that is a joke, and i'm sorry it has taken me so long

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” Agravaine snaps the moment they are all back in the house. Mordred is on his heels, furiously trying to recover what had happened in his mind.

Honestly, the ending of the session had been a blur. Monmouth had found the forms and handed them over, instructing for them to be read over and signed by the end of the weekend if this was going ahead. Mordred had been driven by Agravaine, and the silence in the car as they made their way back to the house was tangible, an almost living atmosphere of barely contained rage.

Agravaine did not speak to him until they’d arrived at the house, at which point he’d slapped the wheel with a fist and muttered, “If he thinks he just come in and start telling me what to do, he is sorely mistaken.”

Mordred didn’t think he was supposed to have heard that part.

“I was _thinking_ of keeping a lovely house in the family!” Gawain is saying now, deceptively wide eyed as though any of them would believe that.

“You were _thinking_ of yourself, as usual!” Agravaine snaps back. “Maybe you could have considered that the rest of us don’t want to uproot ourselves on some half-fleshed, hare-brained idea!”

“It’s a great idea!”

“It’s a horrible idea.”

“It’s—” Gawain thinks for a second. “Okay, fine, perhaps it’s a bit impulsive, whatever. That doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

“Yes, it does,” Agravaine shoots back instantly, collapsing on the sofa and apparently deciding that that was going to be his final comment.

Gawain scowls as though about to retort, but Gaheris takes up the fight before he has the chance.

“Why could you possibly want this to happen,” he asks with a glare. “Us all living together would be a disaster. Hell, we’ve barely stayed in touch since we left. Maybe there is a reason.”

Shaking his head, Gawain seems about to bite back another comment.

“Mother…” he hesitates, then sighs despondently. “The lawyer said that mother wanted us all at the reading together. All she wanted was for us to be together, to be a family, but we… we wouldn’t give it to her. We couldn’t give it to her. But now, she’s gone, and I just feel—we could finally try and honour her memory.”

He sinks back into his chair, hair falling over his face. The silence is somehow saturating into every part of the room, until—

“You can’t _possibly_ expect us to fall for that,” Agravaine deadpans.

Gawain peeks his head up – eyes completely dry – to see four highly unimpressed faces staring back at him.

“Ah, yeah, I kind of hoped you would,” he admits. “Never mind.”

Mordred tries not to wonder too much if Gawain is going to get to any sort of reasonable point, because he’s pretty sure he knows the answer. The answer is, of course, ‘if he feels like it’.

“Tell us why you want to move in,” Mordred scowls, “Or we will walk out right now.”

Agravaine inclines his head in agreement, which is fortunate because Mordred had said that on impulse. Gaheris is not likely to leave with them, and Gareth of course actually lives there.

It seems to be working on Gawain, though, because he has narrowed his eyes at them nervously. Maybe with it just being Mordred and Agravaine, the two most likely to leave anyway, he is more inclined to believe it.

“So…”

“You’re not letting me out of this, are you?” Gawain sighed. “Okay, fine.”

There is silence for an entire two minutes.

“Seriously?” Gawain says eventually. “You’re being serious?”

“Just tell us,” Gareth sighs, looks weary of this whole situation.

“Well, I’m—” a brief flash of _something_ that Mordred would have called uncomfortableness if it were on anyone other than Gawain crosses his face. “I’m bored, okay?! Since I got promoted I’ve been working from home, and I live alone—I just—” he trails off, blinking at them. “I’m lonely,” he finishes lamely.

Agravaine scoffs. “That’s right. It’s reasonable for us to upend our lives because your well-paying promotion gives you too much free time—”

“Let’s do it.”

Agravaine cuts off. He, Gaheris and Mordred all turn to stare at Gareth, whose eyes are carefully averted to the floor.

“What did you just say?” Gaheris asks cautiously which, Mordred thinks, is a pretty fair question.

Gareth shrugs slightly.

“I said, let’s do it,” he repeats. “It’s not like I’m looking forward to figuring out a living situation. I don’t go to Uni until next year. Mordred and Gaheris, you’re on break. Gawain works from home, Agravaine, you can work on your master’s from home, you said you don’t need to go in often—”

“You’re doing a master’s?” Gawain pipes up, looking rather smug that he’s getting his way. “That’s pretty cool.”

A surprisingly ugly look forces its way onto Agravaine’s face for a second before it is smoothed reluctantly away into something fixed and polished.

“Thank you,” he replies stiffly. “It’s my second.”

Gawain whistles absent-mindedly. “Impressive,” he notes. “You should have said something, Aggs.”

Trying not to wince, Mordred tugs lightly on Agravaine’s sleeve to remind him that he’s there. Agravaine _had_ mentioned that he was on a second master’s, having gone to do that before a doctorate, once to Mordred over email when he was taking it, and then again off-handedly during the wake. Gawain, of course, had been there for neither occasion.

Gareth seems to sense blood in the water and steers them all back on topic.

“So, we’re all going with this?” He checks.

Gaheris hums, then nods. “Why not?” He agrees. “Can’t be any worse than before.”

Mordred simply shrugs, which is about as much of an agreement as they’re going to get from him. It’s not like they would be grouped together in such a massive house, anyway.

“Am I the only one who is seeing reason?” Agravaine snaps. He looks a little betrayed by Mordred agreeing to the move. “It’s not even been an hour, and suddenly you’re all jumping right on board the train?”

“Come on, Aggs,” Gawain pleads, gripping his brother’s shoulder. “This will be good for us. You’ll see.”

Mordred would personally not have put Gawain on the persuasion role for Agravaine, as Aggs deeply enjoys doing the opposite of what their brother wants.

“Please?”

But he has suddenly seen that maybe Gawain understands Agravaine more than he thought. With that simple ‘please’, Agravaine’s shoulders sag.

“I guess it’s not like we’ve ever thought things through properly before,” he sighs. “Why start now?”

With a cheer from Gawain, they all turn to the papers on the desk.

“When should we think about moving?” Gareth asks cautiously.

The answer from Gawain is simply a grin.

\-------

“Mordred.”

Mordred did not turn to look at the blond man currently draping himself over the sofa.

“Mordred!”

He begins whistling a tune very loudly and poorly, hoping that it will drive away his unwanted roommate. It doesn’t, and the man simply stands and swaps to sitting on the counter in front of him.

“Mordred—”

“ _Yes_ , Galahad?” He sighs, moving his three spoons, four knives and single fork: all mismatching, all acquired God knows where – into a box labelled “Kitchen” in a messy scrawl.

Galahad peers into the box. “What are you doing?”

“Building a box castle,” Mordred answers immediately, having long ago committed to choosing the latter whenever confronted with the choice between reasonableness and sarcasm.

Galahad studies him for a moment.

“I think you’re lying,” he says decisively. “You shouldn’t lie, Mordred, it’s bad for the soul. God disapproves of it.”

“I gave up on any sort of God when I met you,” Mordred shoots back immediately. Galahad looks highly offended, though luckily he has known Mordred for long enough now that he doesn’t get upset.

“Hi, Mordred,” Perceval greets him, wandering into the room. “What are you up to?”

“Oh, just packing,” Mordred answers, grinning when Galahad scoffs behind him.

“’Just packing,’” he repeats in a high mocking voice. Then, when his curiosity wins out— “Why are you packing?”

“Are you finally moving?” Bors asks. Startled, Mordred spins to see him sunk into the armchair.

“How long have you been there?” He snaps.

“Not long,” admits Bors. “I just wanted to surprise you. So?”

Mordred throws his head back with a groan.

“Yes,” he admits, realising that he doesn’t have much chance of peace if he doesn’t answer. “Gawain has decided that, in the spirit of brotherly bonding, we are going to move in together.”

“That seems sudden,” Perceval frowns, at exactly the same time as Galahad says:

“Didn’t your mum _just_ die?”

“Yes to both,” Mordred says, trying to conceal a grin at the swipe Bors had aimed at Galahad. “Mother apparently left us a house. It’s big enough for all five of us.”

He pauses.

“Actually, it would probably be big enough for all five of us to have our own flats inside. It’s this old manor, much better than this shithole.” He motions around the flat derisively.

Galahad has perked up.

“Big old manor house?” He asks hopefully. “Sounds like the kind of place that could hold an ancient heirloom!”

“No strange wine cups, I’m afraid,” Mordred sighs lightly, already looking forward to the irritation it will cause them. “The moving company don’t need that.”

Bors frowns. “You don’t have enough stuff to need a moving company.”

“It’s a goblet!” Perceval insists at the same time.

“Perceval, I’ve told you before, it’s more of a chalice,” Galahad corrects. “Besides, Mordred’s kidding. He doesn’t have any other friends.”

This, though harsh, is unfortunately not untrue. Being able to see ghosts everywhere you go is not the best way to form solid friendships.

Mordred has been able to see ghosts for as long as he can remember, which perhaps requires some explanation.

The first major event in his memory is the feeling of cold, bitterly cruel water filling his mouth, the paralysing fear when he had realised that he couldn’t move. He had been young: swimming lessons had begun but not in any sort of particular earnest. He hadn’t even meant to go in the lake, he didn’t think: at this point he can’t truly remember what he’d been doing. What he does remember is the dark slowly encroaching at the edges of his vision, the burning feeling in his lungs, how he couldn’t even cry because of the water, and then—

Nothing.

He’d woken up in a hospital the next day, his mother asleep in the chair next to the bed. Apparently Gawain and Agravaine had been coming to find him for dinner when they’d seen him go under, and had rushed in to save him. Just in time too, the nurse told him, because any longer and he wouldn’t have been able to recover. As it was, he had legally died for a number of minutes, but fortunately not long enough to be lost completely.

And then the actual doctor had come in and said the same thing, and he’d watched the nurse wave goodbye cheerily before walking away through the wall.

Morgause had smothered him the whole time he’d been forced to stay in bed, always ensuring that she or one of his older brothers were nearby. Lot, of course, had never been in the rotation. At one point she’d dropped Gareth on his lap and walked back out, and the young boy had solemnly informed him that he was a ghost, ‘like Casper’.

This, of course, was untrue, but apparently the ghost theme was correct. As he had been informed by a helpful ghost in the woods, his (unfortunately intimate) brush with death had left him with the ability to see and interact with ghosts.

Which lead to his current housemates.

None of whom were alive.

When you can see ghosts, they kind of pop up… everywhere. When you’re walking down the street, in the park, on the bus, even at school. Never, bizarrely, at home. Both Morgause and Lot were well-off in their own right, and they had good jobs besides, so their childhood home had been large enough for all of them and fairly old besides, but somehow there had never been a ghost that he had seen.

He never brought it up with his mother, but he had his own suspicions about why that was.

That was, until he was sixteen, and had discovered some kind of old, rusted cup tucked away in the loft. He wasn’t really supposed to be up there at all, but mother was in one of her overprotective spells now that Gaheris had left, and he was pretty desperate for some space. Besides, what had Morgause been expecting by telling him not to go up there? For him to listen? what had Morgause been expecting by telling him not to go up there? For him to listen? Yeah, right.

The cup itself was in a cardboard box, one of the corners slightly crushed and torn, and comfortably taped up with bubble wrap. In fairness, the only reason he actually unwrapped it was because he was getting a bit bored and wanted to pop the bubbles, but that didn’t really matter. The moment his hand touched the strangely warm metal, a shock of burning seemed to reverberate through the room and three semi-corporeal figures fell over from where they had not been before.

Apparently the cup was a special kind of ‘grail’: Galahad had tried to explain how it was holy and whatnot, but Mordred had frankly not listened. Each of the three had at some point gone out to find it but had mysteriously died at the end of their journey. Mordred did not think this boded well for his chances of survival, but Bors assured him that you had to actively be searching for the grail, and that he wouldn’t meet any of the other requirements.

This seemed as though they did not know why they had all died, and were making up excuses, but Mordred let it pass.

Their spirits were tied to the cup, though they had a reach around it, specifically for the building in which the house was located or, to some extent, with the owner of the cup. Perceval told him that they had been stuck within the cup itself for years now, but for some reason Mordred’s own abilities had released them.

Wonderful.

His irritation with now having three extra people hanging around him, when he could barely even stand the amount of living people in the house, had not stopped him from taking the cup with him when he left, nor when he moved into his own flat, small though it was. The three ghosts had fortunately decided that they would remain in the cup for a certain amount of time each day, but other than that they were definitely enjoying their time out. He’d had to let Perceval read an entire book series through him holding up the book and turning the page when asked, and on one particularly miserable afternoon, had given into Galahad’s badgering to carry the cup in a bag and take him to visit all the churches in the neighbourhood and the surrounding area, which was more than Mordred had ever visited church in his life.

So yes, it could be considered that they were his closest, and possibly only friends. Which was a little bit sad, to be honest.

“I will take you on _one_ condition,” Mordred decides. “You all have to promise not to bother me around my brothers.”

Galahad pouts. “But I _want_ to meet your brothers!”

“We can see them, but still not necessarily bother Mordred about it,” Bors offers, ignoring Perceval’s doubtful glance. “Besides, we can get to know the other ghosts!”

Mordred halts in what was not really packing. “The what?”

“The… other ghosts?” Bors repeats.

“What other ghosts?”

The three of them look at each other as though he is mad.

“You said it was a really old manor house, right?” Perceval asks eventually. Mordred nods. “Well, it’s unlikely that a house like that hasn’t seen death. It’s probably got _loads_ of ghosts.”

Mordred wishes, not for the first time, that he could start thinking decisions through before committing. He is pretty sure that he’s made a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new characters!! i'm just adding galahad to the characters at the moment because i'm just going to tag the main ghosts rather than all of them. i hope the explanation of them makes sense though lmao, i just really wanted mordred to have his own team of ghosts.
> 
> this chapter was going to longer, but actually i figured it was easier to simply do the whole moving in chapter as one, rather than splitting it. next chapter: the new house!
> 
> also, yes they agreed to move in together pretty quickly. they're not the most deliberative bunch.


	3. A Problem of Haunted Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brothers move in to their new home. Featuring: car journeys, room allocation and new... friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> genuinely think this is a record time for me posting a new chapter. but i am having a lot of fun writing it so it's fine.
> 
> also, as you can see in the summary, new characters! who could they be?? i guess you will have to read to find out... unless you saw the original tumblr post. in which case you know exactly who they are.
> 
> and here is a fun game, lets see if you can guess whether agravaine and mordred are my favourite orkney pair. if you see them constantly stuck in a car together two chapters in a row... no you don't.

Agravaine looks around Mordred’s flat with an expression of some derision, which is honestly pretty unfair, because Mordred knows for a fact that Agravaine’s isn’t much better. _Wasn’t_ much better, he supposes, because he’s moved out. He knows that Agravaine thinks this is way too sudden – which, of course, it is – because he’d been complaining about it over the phone for an hour and a half. Mordred had only phoned him to find out the best way of packing mugs.

It has taken two trips to the car, one of which only because they couldn’t carry Mordred’s coffee table whilst holding other boxes, to remove everything that Mordred considers _his_ from the flat. It’s kind of sad, really, looking around the bare space, in that he isn’t sad at all. It feels like he never lived there at all.

“All done?” His older brother checks. Mordred gives one last look around, then nods.

“Let’s go.”

He instantly slides into the passenger seat when they arrive at the car, to an eyeroll from Agravaine. There had been a disagreement whist filling in the boxes, because apparently he had genuinely thought Mordred would sit in the backseat with no qualms. He hadn’t wanted Mordred to ‘force his music on’. This, Mordred allows himself to think as he immediately reaches for the AUX cord, was fair.

“Seatbelt on,” Agravaine reminds him, not even having checked to see if he already has it on.

He doesn’t.

“You’re not in charge of me,” he snorts, scrolling through the songs in his library.

Agravaine turns to him. “If you don’t put your seatbelt on, I am going to throw your phone out of the window,” He informs Mordred calmly, then thinks for a second and adds, “And then I will run it over.”

They stare at each other in silence for a bit, until Mordred gives in and obligingly puts the seatbelt on with an exaggerated motion.

“Happy now?” He asks grumpily.

“Ecstatic,” Agravaine smirks back.

Mordred turns back to his phone and mutters something to himself. He isn’t sure what he’s saying, but it makes him feel better, until a voice startles him.

“Are you looking forward to going?”

“Shit!” Mordred jumps as Galahad leans over from the back. The phone falls from his fingers. Agravaine doesn’t even bother questioning it, just begins driving with a little chuckle at his brother’s misfortune.

“What are—” he begins, then stops and side-eyes Agravaine. Aggs doesn’t look particularly bothered that his brother is talking to himself, and honestly he doesn’t appear to be listening whatsoever, but better safe than sorry. Mordred pulls up the notes app on his phone.

 _What are you doing here?_ He types.

Galahad stares for a second.

“I can’t type on that,” he whispers back urgently. Mordred makes a valiant attempt to not roll his eyes.

 _You can just tell me_ , he replies, and then adds, after some thought, _idiot_.

“Oh, right,” Galahad nods. “Well, I’m… not doing much, honestly. We’re in a magic carriage.”

_You know that it’s called a car. Why aren’t you in the cup_

It takes Galahad a second to read the message, and then he pouts.

“I don’t want to be stuck with Bors and Perceval in there for hours!” He answers, in hushed tones for some reason. “I wanted to see the journey!”

Mordred groans, but honestly he can’t be bothered to argue. It’s not like Galahad can annoy him too much from the backseat. He is, after all, intangible.

He nods in agreement and Galahad beams. Then shuffles. Then huffs.

Mordred is filled with instant regret.

“There’s boxes back here,” the ghost complains.

“That’s because we’re _moving_ ,” Mordred snaps back.

“Congratulations,” Agravaine, who is of course also in the car, says drily. “Aren’t you a genius?”

Mordred levels a glare at Galahad, who has the grace to look guilty for about half a second before he starts complaining again.

“It’s really uncomfortable.”

_You are a ghost. You’re intangible_

“You don’t need to gloat.” He shuffles a bit more. “Can I sit on your lap?”

“ _What_?”

He manages to remember that Agravaine is still there and glances at him with the first explanation he can think of, which is “Sorry, I was just surprised to see the cows.”

Fortunately, Agravaine is humming a tune under his breath and blatantly ignoring him, because there are in fact no cows anywhere nearby. He turns back to his phone.

_No_

Behind him, Galahad hums thoughtfully.

“You can’t stop me,” he decides eventually. “Move over.”

And with that, he ghosts his way through the front seat and perches on Mordred’s lap, gazing out the window cheerfully.

Mordred still isn’t very sure what the deal is with ghosts. The three who have attached themselves to him seem perfectly able to sit, to stand on things, to walk about, even though they still can walk through everything automatically.

Luckily for Galahad (and very unluckily for Mordred), the frantic struggling that Mordred is attempting in vain finally breaks Agravaine’s long worn patience.

“If you do not stop,” He grits out, slamming on the brakes, “I will put on _my_ music. And I will ensure that you hate every single song.”

“Fine,” Mordred grumbles. Galahad smirks at him as they start driving away again.

“You realise that you didn’t check behind us when you hit the breaks.”

“Yes.”

“We could have been hit.”

Mordred thinks he hear Agravaine mutter, “That would be the dream,” but he can’t be sure.

\-------

The roads grow narrower the nearer they get to the destination. Mordred checks every so often, to make sure that his phone still has signal, but though it wavers, it doesn’t fall quite as much as he had feared. Agravaine had calmed down sometime after they’d stopped at a service station to get a halfway break, and doesn’t even seem to mind that this is the third time he’s played this particular song.

“Do you know if the other group has gotten there yet?” Mordred asks, hoping that they have. They’d all agreed to wait outside until they could go in together, and it is _cold_.

Agravaine hums, leaning over to check his phone.

“Gawain has,” He says after a quick scroll. “Gaheris and Gareth texted to say that they’d stopped a while back, but it doesn’t look like they’re too far behind.”

Mordred nods, then frowns in confusion. “Wait… Gaheris and Gareth aren’t with Gawain?”

“Nope,” Agravaine says. “Gaheris drove them, so there’s room in Gawain’s car for some of the extra stuff from Mother’s house. Why?”

“Gaheris can’t drive.” Mordred says. Agravaine looks over, an expression of some bewilderment on his face. “He took a couple of lessons, but he left before he could pass the test.”

“Well, he probably passed when he went to Uni,” Agravaine decides with a little half-shrug. “It’s not like he would have told you, is it? I wouldn’t stress. Besides—”

The car is rumbling up a gravel drive, the trees on either side parting—

“We’re here.”

Gawain is indeed parked in front of the house, leaning against his car with a Costa cup in one hand. He raises it in greeting as they come up next to him.

“Whoa.”

“Yeah,” Mordred agrees, reaching for the door. Galahad glides out before him and disappears, presumably to tell Bors and Perceval that they have arrived.

The photos really didn’t do it justice. The front of the house, steps leading up, is grand and imposing with a huge, carved wooden door. There are honest to god _pillars_ , wrapped with ivy and some kind of white flower. The fountain in the centre of the drive is empty of water and the basin covered in fallen leaves, but the actual structure of it is still undamaged. The edging of the roof and walls is white and heavily decorative, the carvings still mostly intect.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Gawain says, looking up at it as he comes to stand beside them. “Can’t believe Mother kept this a secret.”

“I can,” Agravaine volunteers.

Gawain gives an acknowledging nod. “Yeah, me too,” he agrees. “But still, it’s pretty cool.”

Mordred is honestly impressed that the two of them are getting along, even if it has only been a few minutes, when a roaring noise comes and the last two brothers come sailing in, the car halting in a flurry of gravel. Gareth practically falls out of the passenger seat, looking faintly squeamish.

“Wow,” he says as he sees the house, though quite honestly he looks like he has not recovered enough to properly appreciate it. For what it is worth, Gaheris looks completely fine.

“How was the drive?” Mordred asks his younger brother when Gareth has drawn closer to the three who are already standing, admiring the house.

Gareth shudders. “Dreadful”

“It was fine!” Gaheris counters, striding up next to him and taking in the house. “This is amazing. Anyway, Gare just got a bit upset that I happened to go a little faster than the advice of a couple of those road signs.”

Gawain nods as though Gaheris is making complete sense.

“You drive like a maniac,” Gareth shoots back, then leans in closer to Mordred. “I don’t even know how he passed the driver’s test.”

Gaheris frowns. “That’s easy. I didn’t.”

All four brothers turn to him.

“You didn’t pass?” Agravaine checks.

“Nope.”

“Well then, how do you have your license?”

Gaheris snorts as though listening to a particularly amusing joke.

“You don’t need a license to drive,” he answers.

“Oh, god,” Gareth mumbles as Gaheris marches closer to look at the wall. “That explains so much.”

“Well!” Cries Gawain, changing the subject with a clap. “We’re all here. Shall we look inside?”

There is a general sense of agreement, and the instant jumble of words.

“Alright, let’s go—”

“Not so fast, Aggs. Eldest first.”

“Don’t call me that. It doesn’t matter who goes first, just—”

“You’re right! It doesn’t matter. As long as I am in first—”

Gaheris says something then, but Mordred has fully tuned them out. Because, watching from the top window, are three figures staring down at them.

Oh, god.

Perceval was right.

\-------

“Where do we want to look first?” Gareth asks, twisting this way and that to look around the entrance hall. It’s grand, a wooden staircase at one end, and two archways through to either side of the building in front of that.

Agravaine shrugs. “We could look upstairs and pick out bedrooms? That way we can look around when we have most of our stuff inside.”

“I dread to think of the arguments that picking bedrooms will create,” Mordred mumbles, trying to ignore the figures he had seen in the window. He wants to leave. He would have, if Agravaine hadn’t noticed him hanging back and steered him inside with what he had considered a comforting pat.

“I know that this is big, Mor,” he had muttered in low enough tones that only Mordred could hear. “But it will be fine.”

It might have been comforting, had it not been from one of his brothers, or if the house were not haunted.

“It won’t be that difficult,” Gawain is saying now decisively. “I get the largest room, because I am the eldest.”

“I think that the tallest should get the largest room,” Gaheris points out immediately.

“No. You’re wrong.”

Agravaine chimes in then. “Let’s compromise. As the second eldest, _and_ the second tallest, it would even out to me getting the biggest room.”

“No, Aggs, you can have the _second_ biggest and go three for three—”

“The biggest could be used as something else?”

Agravaine nods. “Gareth’s right. That makes sense.”

Looking startled but rather pleased, Gareth beams at Agravaine. “Thanks, Aggs. I’m glad you can see sense—”

“And,” Agravaine continues, “we’ve just decided that I get the second biggest room. So I suppose that I will actually be having the biggest bedroom in use.”

“Oh,” Gareth mutters as Gawain and Gaheris start booing.

Mordred is not listening to them.

A figure is standing on the stairs, leaning down on the bannister. She’s evaluating them all carefully, scanning each of them with a curious expression.

Her eyes meet Mordred’s.

It clearly only takes a moment for her to register that he can see her, because she springs back from the bannister in shock, eyes widened. Mordred makes a split second decision: pretend to ignore her, or follow her and try and get this sorted out.

“Maybe we should split up?” He suggests, trying to convey to the ghost that he wants to talk to her. Incredible that Galahad never leaves, but somehow makes himself scarce the moment he needs him.

“Perhaps that’s a good idea,” Gawain agrees thoughtfully. He meets Gaheris’ eyes. “After all… someone needs to check out the big room.”

“You’re a _dick_!” Gaheris exclaims, turning on a heel and beginning to race up the stairs. Gawain follows instantly, the two of them charging away.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Agravaine sighs, watching them go. “I’m not dealing with that. I’m off.”

Indeed, he turns to one of the archways and walks through, following along the wall.

The ghost is on the bottom step now, and is gesturing towards the other archway.

“Well,” Gareth says. “I guess it’s just us. Did you want to look around together?”

“Um,” Mordred replies absently. I’m gonna go check out that. Maybe later.”

“Right,” Gareth sighs behind him.

The ghost is silent as she leads him into the other wing, then round a couple of turns and suddenly disappears through a wall. After some experimentation, he presses the right area and it opens up into a bare staircase. The ghost is standing at the top of them, looking rather confused, though that clears slightly when she sees him again.

She doesn’t speak until he reaches her, emerging into a smallish room with only a couple of chairs, covered in white cloth.

“Sorry,” she greets him. “I forget that you can’t just walk through walls.”

“It’s fine.”

“Right.” She hesitates for a second before leaning in closer. “You can see me.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, feeling a bit uncomfortable at her unblinking gaze. “I’ve been able to see ghosts for years.”

“That’s wizard,” the ghost nods, then gestures to one of the chairs. “You can sit, if you want. The cloth is only on them to stop them getting dusty.”

“Cheers.” He pulls off the fabric and sits, unsure of what to say next.

“So… what’s your name?”

“Oh!” The girl shakes her head a bit. “Right, sorry. I’m Clarissant. Are you moving in here?”

“Me and my brothers,” he explains. “We just inherited it.”

“Ah,” Clarissant nods. “From the Pendragon fellow?”

“Who?”

“Oh.” She frowns, then shakes it off. “Never mind. It’s been a while, I must be confused.”

“Right. And no, from our mother. She just died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be.”

“Alright.” Clarissant seems to accept that easily, because she just nods and moves on. “You seem to be handling this pretty well. What’s your name?”

“Mordred.” He shrugs a bit. “I live with these three ghosts, you get used to it pretty easily. They came with me, actually.”

“They… came with you?” repeats Clarissant in a shocked voice. “They can move?!”

“Only when they’re with their cup,” Mordred says. “Is that not normal?”

“I’ve never heard of it before.” Clarissant frowns. “Did you just say ‘cup’?”

“It’s a whole thing,” Mordred waves it off. “Don’t worry. So how many more of you are there here?”

Clarissant settles back and considers. “Um… quite a few. I think— wait!” She hops up again. “I’ll go and get Bedivere and Kay. They’re like… the leaders, I guess? They can explain it.”

She runs off immediately, then pokes her head back in. “Don’t… go anywhere. Yes?”

“Sure,” Mordred agrees to the wall.

Not five minutes have gone by before Mordred notices a slight flutter of movement and turns to say hello again to Clarissant, only to see that she isn’t there. A male ghost stands there instead, young, with a mop of dark hair.

“Are you Mordred?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Mordred agrees warily. “Are you… Kay or Bedivere?”

The man outright _laughs_.

“No, no,” he dismisses. “Clarissant’s just getting them, but she ran into me first. I’m—”

“Owain!”

This time it _is_ Clarissant, accompanied by a whole group of ghosts. Owain grins at her as she strides up to him and narrows her eyes.

“Are you stealing my new friend?” She asks suspiciously.

“Of course not!” Owain answers, eyes wide and innocent. “I was simply introducing myself.”

“Hmm.” Clarissant leans in close to him for a second before hopping back and skipping round to Mordred’s side. “Hello again.”

“Hello,” Mordred replies, trying not to grin at her. That really would ruin his reputation.

Owain has stepped up on the other side of him. “You need to do something.”

“What?”

He shakes head a little bit. “Like, to show that you can see them. Something dramatic.”

Mordred glances over at Clarissant, because he really doesn’t believe him, but she nods regretfully.

“Some of them won’t believe you unless you do something really stupid.” She agrees.

“It’s because some of them are pretty stupid anyway,” Owain explains.

This sounds like some form of ghost politics that Mordred does not want to be involved in, but the group do seem to be muttering amongst themselves a lot.

“Alright, then,” he sighs. “Let’s get this over with.”

He feels about in his jacket pocket for something, and throws the weight now in his hand – which, unfortunately, turns out to be his phone – at the nearest figure aside from the two next to him.

The man, shorter than him but possibly on about the same level as Gawain, looks curiously at the object.

“You dropped that,” he deadpans, staring at Mordred with a laughing glint in his eyes. Then his eyes pan down to Mordred’s shirt, and sniggers. “Queen, huh? Are you aware that there are other bands that aren’t the most basic choices in existence?”

Mordred bristles. “It’s my brother’s,” he snaps. It isn’t Agravaine’s anymore, of course, because Mordred’s only way of showing affection – well, Perceval calls it a ‘love language’ – is taking items of clothing and claiming them as his own. But Queen isn’t even that bad, to be honest, even if otherwise Agravaine’s taste is generally questionable—

He snaps out of that thought when he realises that the ghost is still staring at him with an even wider smirk.

“I hate you,” he informs him.

“That’s fair,” the ghost acknowledges with a dip of his head. “Dinadan.”

“Don’t care,” Mordred replies immediately before turning to look at the wide collection of others. There’s a lot of them – probably about six others, discounting Owain and Clarissant.

Just wonderful.

One man, perhaps the oldest (physically at least), and dressed in a neat Captain’s uniform, steps forward and holds out a hand, a stern look on his face that reminds Mordred for a sudden, harsh second, of Lot. Then that is gone, and all that remains is a tall man with combed hair and an expression of some disapproval.

“I can’t touch your hand,” Mordred points out as a way to shake off the shock. The man scowls, pulling his hand back as if burned.

“I see,” he says, lip curling. “So, you’re one of _those_ youths.”

He looks as though he is about to say something else, but is stopped by another ghost, this time wearing what looked like a scout leader’s uniform.

“You can ignore him,” the new one says with a weary sigh. “I’m Bedivere, this is Kay.” He grins back at the newly-dubbed Kay, whose stern demeanour cracks slightly into a small smile. Mordred tries not to gag.

Waving the other ghosts over, Bedivere stands back as though introducing a show’s cast.

“You’ve met Clarissant and Owain, of course,” he says. Both of them give little waves. “And now Dinadan.” Dinadan smirks. “The lady on the far end is Laudine—” the lady in question gives a little curtsey and then winks at Owain, who coughs somewhat embarrassedly. Kay gives them both a disapproving look. “Then, we have Lamorak—” the man smirks and Mordred hates him instantly—, “Brangaine—” the woman waves— “and, finally, Lancelot.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Brangaine greets him. “Palamedes and Elaine aren’t here right now, but I’m sure you’ll meet them soon enough.”

“Wonderful,” mutters Mordred.

“I’ll show him!” call Clarissant and Owain at the exact same time. Bedivere shakes his head.

“You can _both_ show him,” he promises. “So, Mordred, Clarissant mentioned that you have some other spirits with you?”

Mordred nods. “I think they’re looking around the grounds,” he offers. “They’ll be back soon.”

Bedivere nods understandingly, then gestures to the door. “We can talk later,” he explains. “I’m sure your brothers will be looking for you.”

“I doubt it.”

“Nevertheless, it will be easier not to crowd you with too much information right now. We can talk again tomorrow. It was very nice meeting you.”

Mordred is not good with adult figures, but he nods as politely as he can. As though on instinct, Bedivere nudges Kay, who begrudgingly also nods a goodbye to Mordred before leaving.

“Come on, then,” Clarissant says when they have left. She reaches to tug his hand, obviously remembers that she can’t touch him, and circles around to his other side instead. “We can give you a tour around the house. That’s what you’re meant to be doing, right?”

Mordred nods, remembering after a second that she was there for that conversation.

“Oh, I’ll show you my old room!” Owain exclaims. Laudine has taken her place on his other side. “It’s not the biggest, but the biggest rooms are pretty awful. The sun shines right in when it rises, you can never sleep in those ones.”

Mordred grins to himself, thinking of Gawain and Gaheris’ race, and decides that maybe this could be useful after all.

**Author's Note:**

> No one should let Gawain make decisions ever
> 
> Also: I don't hate Morgause but I also don't think she's a very good mother. This chapter is pretty much written from Gareth's perspective so all of the brothers have pretty different ideas of her. That will be touched upon later because I already have the scene written and it unfortunately doesn't fit in the first chapter


End file.
